


Hot Water

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin’s Magic (Merlin), Gen, Healing, Pre-Slash, SO, This isn't gay in the same way the show isn't gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 12:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Leon shuffles, a move so unlike him that Arthur is immediately concerned. “It's about Merlin, sire.”He wonders what he's done now. Something stupid no doubt, insulted a noblewoman or broken something valuable. A day in the stocks might be required to make the aggrieved party happy. But then, that's not unusual enough for his most capable knight to be fiddling with his sword scabbard.“I believe he has magic.”





	Hot Water

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a fan of Merlin (and Merthur) since the first episode aired, and despite a few runs at it, I've never yet finished writing a fic for it. So here - I hope the 11 years of build-up pays off...! :D

“Sire.” Leon stays behind after training, and while that's not unusual in itself, the grave look on his face is. “I wish to speak with you. In private.”

He looks around. “Go on.” Leon shuffles, a move so unlike him that Arthur is immediately concerned. They set off quickly in the direction of the forest, and once they're far enough from the city walls to speak unheard, Leon starts.

“It's about Merlin, sire.”

He wonders what he's done now. Something stupid no doubt, insulted a noblewoman or broken something valuable. A day in the stocks might be required to make the aggrieved party happy. But then, that's not unusual enough for his most capable knight to be fiddling with his sword scabbard.

“I believe he has magic.”

Arthur stops walking. Leon continues for a few steps, but stops and turns when he realises Arthur isn't following.

“You believe?” It's a serious accusation to make. On what grounds?

“I know, Arthur.” He looks down at his hands, and when he looks up again, his face is pained. A face that Arthur has known for years. A face that guided him, when he was younger and foolish, and who stands by his side now, stalwart, whatever they face. “I saw him. When we were ambushed last week, I was down but not yet out. He must have thought I was, because he... he stood and raised a hand and his eyes glowed gold. The bandits were forced back.”

Arthur remembers that trip. An embarrassment all round, himself, Leon and Gwaine, three of Camelot's knights, ambushed out in the woods by a rogue gang of bandits. They should have made mincemeat of them. Instead, they'd been taken by surprised, disarmed and knocked unconscious. Or so he thought.

But Leon is Leon. He's steadfast, a true friend. He's not like Paleon or any of the older knights that stayed loyal to his father, and resented following someone younger than them. He's not like Trilyn, who made trouble for sport or jealousy before Arthur dispatched him to a posting in a distant part of the kingdom. He's not like Gwaine, either, the type to think it a fine joke – Merlin with magic. If he's saying something, he is sure of it. Or he thinks he is.

They'd woken after the ambush to Merlin – seemingly treated more lightly as he posed no threat – fussing around them. The bandits had taken fright, he said, noises in the woods, thought it was reinforcements, and run off. Not even stopped to rifle in their packs for valuables.

“I don't believe he has ever meant us harm, sire. And if he's playing a long game, it's long indeed, I know he's been with you for years. But I needed to tell you.”

Arthur nods, sharply. “Thank you Leon.”

–

For the rest of the week, he's not sure what to do, so he falls back on routine. He congratulates himself for not acting rashly, but taking the time to think things through and come to a measured decision.

Merlin is not dangerous, he is sure. There is no need to lie, frozen in fear for his morning wake-up, or inspect every mouthful of delivered food for foul play. Merlin has been serving him since he arrived here, and nothing has changed.

He hates that he hears Merlin's muffled knock each morning from a place of wakefulness, and that Gwen praises his new, slower table manners.

–

“Sire?” Leon hovers while Arthur stashes his training shield and sword. He'll have to tell Merlin to give them both a polish; it's been a hard session and they're looking worse for wear. Or tell someone, he amends.

“Yes?”

“I don't mean to... push, but have you decided on a course of action?”

He could be talking about how they plan to tackle the grain shortage in the outskirts of the kingdom, or even address the skittish nature of Arthur's new mare, but Arthur sighs; no clarification is needed.

“I am observing,” he stalls. “There should be no condemnation without a fair trial, and I think more than one witness – as it's Merlin – would be necessary.”

Given his popularity, he adds silently. His kindness. His worth. The way he's been willing to die for us.

Leon nods, but looks unsure.

“I would appreciate if you could do the same?” Arthur adds. “One instance – in the forest, in the aftermath of a fight – I know you saw well, but there will be those who would question it.”

Gwaine, he thinks. Gwaine is a good knight, but if it came right down to it, Arthur isn't sure his allegiance lies with the crown. With him. Not if the other option is Merlin. Lancelot was a bit like that too.

“Of course, sire.”

–

Merlin hovers around his room three days later. Arthur tracks his movements closely; from straightening the bedclothes, to folding his clothes, to stoking the fire. No magic to be seen. Why would a sorcerer spend his days cleaning and skivvying? It doesn't make sense. Merlin looks up every now and then, but seems quite unsurprised, not to mention unconcerned, to see Arthur looking in his direction.

He collects the breakfast plates, but abandons the job halfway through to open the curtains. Once they're tied back, he opens the wardrobe and starts inspecting clothes for moths.

All chores that need doing, of course, but usually ones Arthur has to prod him into. He strokes the cover of the unopened book on his lap. The restless movement is disturbing his reading. He watches as Merlin stoops to begin sweeping the fire surround; a job usually done when the fire isn't lit, for obvious reasons.

“Are you quite with it, Merlin? You're acting like a drunken bee, bumping from flower to flower.”

Merlin spins, and fixes him with a look. “Is Leon acting weird to you?”

The mention of Leon makes his shoulders stiffen. “No, why?”

“I think he – no, never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It's suddenly imperative that he knows what Merlin knows. “Tell me, Merlin. Or I'll have you put in the stocks for insolence.” Merlin hates the stocks. A sorcerer would never let themselves be pelted by rotten vegetables, he reasons.

“Do you know if nobles ever... look upon servants?”

He thinks it's pretty clear they do, or there'd be people crashing into each other all over the castle. His blank look must come across pretty clearly, because Merlin runs a hand through his hair like he does when he's frustrated.

“In a... loving way. Or not love, I don't know! Interest!” He gestures wildly, blush staining his cheeks.

“What has this got to do with Leon?”

“He's been... watching me.”

“Leon is not watching you.” Leon is most certainly watching him, but Merlin mustn't know. He opens the book to a random page, peering at the words.

“He is!”

“Well not in that way!”

“Then what way?”

“It's all in your head Merlin.” He looks at his spotless room, and realises he'll have to either continue the conversation or send Merlin away. He panics. “Those plates need returning, if you're done.”

–

He mentions to Leon to tone it down, but continues his own surveillance. It's patchy, at best – he can't follow Merlin around the castle as he does his chores – but he manages to drop in while he's cleaning the stables and helping Gaius with poultice preparation. And he continues the high level observation in his own quarters.

Nothing. Not a hint of magic. Not a glimmer of gold.

Leon would never lie to him; he must have hit his head after all, and not realised it. Arthur relaxes, and agrees readily when Merlin asks for the day off to gather herbs for Gaius before the flowering season ends.

–

In the end it's not carelessness or laziness on everyday chores. It's not a heroic intervention in some life or death situation.

It's _George_.

Merlin is away, and Arthur wants a bath, so he asks George to fetch him one. He does so. It is lukewarm. And Arthur realises that if George – super servant George – can't fill a cold metal bath with buckets of boiled water, schlepped from kitchen to his room and present it to him still steaming, it's because it can't be done.

Not naturally.

Merlin's baths are always so hot they turn his skin pink.

–

It throws him. Because while he trusted Leon, he never really believed him – not  _Merlin_ – and that meant this was a problem that didn't need facing. But now the pieces have fallen into place, and so many odd things that he'd accepted suddenly... there's a better explanation.

Sorcerers are punished by burning.

He has nightmares that night; a frozen, betrayed Merlin tied to a post as flames lick through his clothes, gaze fixed on Arthur's, the man who put him there. The moment his expression changes, as the fire tears at his skin, his screams. He wakes drenched in sweat, and throws up in the chamberpot.

Merlin can't be burned.

Banishment? 

“Morning Arthur!” Merlin breezes into his room while he's still on his knees, plate of breakfast in one hand and a piece of bacon already filched and half-eaten in the other. Arthur stares at him. Not _Merlin. _”Arthur?” Merlin drops the plate on the table and rushes to his side, one hand resting lightly between his shoulder blades.

Arthur spent the night imagining that hand boiling, fingernails scratching at a wooden post- his stomach rolls, but he manages not to retch. He pushes into the hand, needing to feel it strong and whole, and Merlin rubs lightly, comforting. He doesn't deserve this.

“Must have eaten something off,” he chokes out. He wants to cry. He hasn't cried since he was fourteen.

Merlin smiles, and it's so normal, so everyday, that Arthur's stomach clenches again. He can't imagine being upset and ill, collapsed on the floor, and have George walk in. How could he send Merlin away? Merlin would survive banishment; he can always go back to Ealdor. But Arthur wouldn't. He needs Merlin. 

“I always said you can't trust George. He's too slick, there's something fishy about him. And now he's poisoned you.” He heaves on Arthur's arm as he talks, and tips him back into the bed. Arthur huffs a laugh, the idea that he's in danger from a servant, that the _sorcerer_ will protect him – but he will, won't he? Merlin has never tried to hurt him. He's saved him. “If you're ill you should rest, I'll tell the knights there's no training today. They'll love a day off.”

Merlin tucks him in, a level of thoughtfulness he doesn’t usually display, and bustles about the room making sure water and his breakfast – should he want it – are in reach. “I'll get something for you from Gaius,” he promises, before heading out with the chamberpot. 

Arthur lies in bed, and stews.

–

By the time he returns, Arthur has given up on the stewing. He's a man of action, and he's made a decision. And not just what to wear (because he is capable of getting dressed without Merlin).

“Oh.”

“I'm feeling much better.”

“I can see that.”

“So I don't need any medicine.” Merlin shrugs, and Arthur tacks on the end, “but thank you.”

“It's not really medicine,” Merlin offers. “Gaius said if you were throwing up that was the best way to purge the system. This,” he offers the steaming mug, “is a restorative.”

Arthur takes it gingerly. He swallows a mouthful; its floral, and herby, and has been sweetened with honey. It's not bad. It's also been carried through corridor after corridor in an earthenware mug, and it still almost scalds his tongue. “It's hot,” he says warily.

“The heat helps the herbs release their properties.”

“Right.”

–

He tells Leon he must have been mistaken later that day. Merlin can't be a sorcerer. He's been under observation for weeks and hasn't so much as sparkled with fairy dust, let alone killed any hard-working people or swayed kingdoms to bow at his feet. He can tell Leon doesn't wholly believe it, that they both know that's not what Merlin would do with magic if he had it, but he's not the type to go against his king.

–

He thinks that's that; they will be able to continue as they did before. Arthur will be careful to look the other way when needed, and Leon will keep quiet.

Arthur is there to deflect suspicion, and he takes care to call Merlin a clotpole on more than one occasion over the following month. He calls attention to his clumsiness, plays up his stupidity (though he's not stupid, he's by far the smartest servant he's ever known), and clocks him round the head at every given opportunity.

Would a sorcerer let himself be shoved around, he asks the world. No. Look at me do it. Merlin is not a sorcerer.

He ignores the way Merlin smiles at him, like they're friends, that maybe the reason he gets away with all that he does is that Merlin likes him. Sorcerers are people too.

–

It all comes to a head, though, because this is Camelot and for some reason calm is not a state in which Camelot can exist for any length of time.

They're out on patrol. It's a beautiful day, one of the first warm ones of Spring, and while they are in light armour there's an air of hunting party about the excursion. There have been no threats, no warnings, nothing to worry about.

Until the arrow sails through the air and lands, deep, in Gwaine's leg.

They fan out immediately, assessing the threat, and its just one archer, with another four on foot with swords. Percival gets in a lucky shot with a stone, throwing the archer off his game enough for Elyan to sneak up on him and pull him down, while Arthur and Leon deal with the swordsmen. Merlin crouches over Gwaine where he's slipped from his horse.

When they're dispatched, Arthur runs over to them. Gwaine is ashen, and silent, and that tells him all he needs to know, but he asks anyway. “Merlin, how bad is it?”

“Bad,” he says shortly.

“We're no more than an hour from Camelo-”

“He's losing blood, we can't throw him back on a horse. Leon, get some water. Percival – anything we can use as bandages, rip something up. Elyan, Arthur – find some witch hazel, or if you can't, then oak leaves -”

He keeps pressure on the wound, and his scarf was red to begin with, but now it's more vibrant than dye can achieve, and wet with blood.

“Merlin-” gasps Gwaine. “Is this-”

“Nope,” he says firmly. “Go!” he shouts at them all, and Arthur scarpers, eyes scanning the ground, just able to hear Merlin's voice turn soft as he turns back to Gwaine. “It's fine, we'll staunch the bleeding and wrap it up, and then head on back to Gaius...”

His heart leaps when he finds the witch hazel, and runs back to the clearing where they'd been ambushed. It's further than he thought he'd travelled, panic fuelling his steps, and by the time he returns Merlin has Gwaine stretched out, a cooking pan of water stained with blood, and several long strips of Percival's cloak already wound around the wound. Streaks of watery red on Gwaine's forehead suggest he's been comforting in between, light strokes of his hair with shaking hands.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes. “Did you get it?”

In response he opens his hands; three tender plants ripped up by the roots, because Merlin hadn't said what part he needed. Merlin grabs another cooking pot, another canteen of water, and dumps it out over the plant. The water steams, turning green, and he throws in more strips from Percival's cloak as well, mixing it all round with a stick before carefully lifting one strip out.

“Hold this,” he says, handing it to Arthur.

“It's warm,” Arthur says. He knew it was, of course; the steam gave that away. But its different to hold it in his hand.

“Heat draws the properties out of the herbs quicker. And reduces infection. Right, when I pull these away, you lay that down over the wound. It'll help it clot.”

He does as he's told, laying strip after strip and winding them around Gwaine's leg, feeling the infused water drip down his arms. It leaves warm trails that itch, that he can't ignore, and his eyes flick to the still steaming bowl.

There's no fire out here. They were ambushed. They were panicked. And yet Merlin uses fresh boiled water to dress Gwaine's wound. In full view of him and Leon and Percival and Elyan, just returning with handfuls of oak. And Gwaine, wincing with each movement, but who must be so aware of the warmth as it lies on his skin.

“Right.” Merlin finishes tying off the makeshift bandages. “This will hold until we get to Gaius. Someone will need to ride with him.” He stares up into blue-grey eyes. Its how he ends up cantering back into Camelot, arms around one of his knights, thoughts wrapped up in his servant.

–

Either Merlin thinks he's stupid, or he's careless. They're the only two options. In a weird way, he hopes its the former, because the latter suggests a disregard for personal safety that could land Merlin in – his brain stutters – hot water.

“Should I fetch you a bath before I go?”

“Are you saying I smell, Merlin?” The response is automatic, no thought process behind it at all.

“Like roses, I'm sure,” he teases back. “You look tense.” Arthur stops his pacing, looking out the window. “And you're favouring that arm a bit. Holding Gwaine up must have stretched it.” He realises he's not seen him in hours; Gaius had ordered them all out while he and Merlin took care of the wound properly.

“How is he?”

“Much better. He'll be back on his feet before we know it.”

Perhaps Merlin would have whispered a healing spell over the bandages, or added a little something to a poultice. Arthur wonders what that would feel like, and if Gwaine could tell. He imagines, in that circumstance, magic must feel like a cool balm. A relief from pain and heat.

“Yes, Merlin, a bath.”

He turns his back while Merlin sorts out the water, pretending to be absorbed in reports. His arm is hurting him; its twinging every time he shifts position, and if Gaius wasn't so busy right now he'd probably have headed down there and asked him to check it over. As it is, he's obviously showing enough pain for Merlin to have offered a bath – a chore hated by servants for its back-breaking shifting of water, of tin tub, the long process both of filling and later emptying it; all for someone else to spend ten minutes soaking and scrubbing before the water gets too cold.

Of course, when he turns around, his bath is steaming. It even smells faintly of roses, despite it being the wrong time of year and with no petals to be seen. He lets Merlin strip him from his clothes and sinks into the blissful heat. Merlin goes to leave, gathering his clothes to take down to the laundress, when -

“Wait!”

Oh, that was him.

“Yes, sire?” That tone. The humour barely concealed by deference while Arthur is up to his neck – literally – in Merlin's magic. Like he wouldn't notice. Like the teasing scent of roses harking back to an earlier barb is a figment.

“Be careful,” he hears himself say, and it's too sober for their usual dynamic; it rings in the air of the room and stops Merlin in his tracks, one hand on the door. “Your tricks – here, with me. It's okay. But out there. It's dangerous.” Merlin is silent, and Arthur can practically see him searching for a quip, a joke, to throw this off. “Hot water,” he adds. “Like it just comes out of the ground!”

“I've read it does, in some places.”

“Not in Camelot.”

Merlin fiddles with the sleeve of Arthur's tunic. It is spotted in red blood. Gwaine's. “No.” A pause, and then, “you know?”

He looks a little like his world is breaking. Like Arthur will rage and fume, and send him to the pyre. Arthur flicks his fingers, splashing the water just a little. Merlin's eyes track the movement, and his shoulders creep a quarter of an inch down from his ears. “You're not hiding it very well.”

“I-”

Nothing more seems to be forthcoming. “Hide it better?” he asks. “Out there. For me?”

Merlin nods, and his gaze falls back to the clothes in his hands. “I'd better-” he shrugs, holding them out like an offering. His reason to leave. Arthur nods.

“Wait!” he calls again, just as Merlin puts his hand back on the door. His face is still drawn, his shoulders still high, and he's obviously not fine. With this conversation, this realisation. Arthur is strangely relieved to find that he is fine. That all the shock and betrayal has melted away like ice in a warm bath, and left his view clear: that Merlin uses his magic to protect. And to heal. To soothe tired muscles and stop infection. And that suddenly it doesn’t matter if he's a sorcerer, because he's Merlin first. And Merlin is good.

“It's getting cold,” he lies. “Could you-” he wiggles his fingers at the water, and grins as Merlin's mouth drops open, eyes wide. Merlin nods wordlessly, and closes his mouth. He holds out one hand – just a touch of apprehension furrowing his brow – and his eyes glow gold. The water warms a few degrees more, until sweat starts to bead on Arthur's forehead. He can feel it loosening his arm, and he closes his eyes in a long blink as relaxation seeps in to his bones. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He opens his eyes again. Just in time to catch a pleased smile flit across Merlin's face, as he closes the door behind him.


End file.
